


the dull pain in your chest isn't getting any duller

by punkwixes (kitahart)



Series: decaytown dot tumblr dot com [1]
Category: Changeling: The Lost, Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 23:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16229174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitahart/pseuds/punkwixes
Summary: “What,” Terry says, “thehellare you doing?”





	the dull pain in your chest isn't getting any duller

“What,” Terry says, “the _hell_ are you doing?”

You glance up, head still bowed, to see her reflection in the mirror. She’s leaning in the bathroom doorway, one hand on the knob, because the concept of locking doors got abolished about a week into your stay at her place. Like, _isn’t it fucking obvious_ what you’re doing?

“Jesus, it’s been five minutes,” you say, setting the file down on the porcelain with a _click_ to check your progress. Not much. “Can’t I fucking _pee?”_

“Yes, you were alone for five minutes and you – _what –”_

You’ve been crashing at Terry’s for three months, which is enough time for you to discover the knife drawer and for Terry to subsequently discover the value of multiple child locks in what you assume is some sort of mutually assured cold war, which is why you’re using the sharp edge of a nail file to slowly whittle down the base of your horns.

You shrug. “Not like it hurts, really.”

Rather: _horn,_ because this used to happen so much faster in Arcadia. You’d done it, a few times: the knife always sliced through like they were as insubstantial as you felt, the cut clean and smooth. This is a little more effort than you’d have wanted to expend for the same effect.

“Okay,” Terry says, like, is she still standing there? “Jesus. Uh, let’s see. Do you know what year it is?”

You hadn’t lied, not really: it hurts about as much as hitting your horns on a doorframe, or rolling over on your side in your sleep: this dull, removed pain that you barely feel. The vibrations that go down to the base of your skull are more uncomfortable than painful, but you have to grit your teeth against the sensation.

“It’s 2016, _duh._ I’m with it, okay? I know this isn’t Arcadia, I’m not trying to – to –” Terry breathes in sharply. “–To hurt myself, alright? I know what I’m doing.”

One would think that that would shut her up, but Terry’s still _fucking talking,_ and you tune in in time to hear her say, “You know you won’t be able to pass as human like this, right? Changelings always know,” and where does she get off on deciding these things about you, honestly, and you ball up your fist and slam it into the wall. The mirror shudders, but it won’t break; it’s plastic. You learned that the hard way.

“It’s not about fucking _passing_ ,” you say, the words catching in your throat, and you are _so so so tired_ of people looking at you like, oh, there’s _her_ problem, I know how to fix it. “And I’m not fuckin’ – dissociating, either. This is just… a thing.”

“A thing,” Terry says slowly. The cut at the base of your horn is oozing a thick liquid that drips down into your hair. Sap, you think. You’re bleeding sap, and a laugh bubbles up in your throat, only you swallow it down, because fuck if Terry doesn’t already think you’re crazy enough. Funny, though, that _that_ one never reached the rest of you. “How about you explain this _thing_ to me, and – no, can I have that?”

You hand her the file. Fine, whatever _._ “It’s not like that, okay? I just –” Something catches in your throat, and your eyes burn, and you swallow down the weird pressure in your chest. “I just don’t want anything _He_ gave me!”

It practically bursts out of you, this thing you didn’t want to say, and Terry says, “Oh,” real soft, like you’re something _fragile,_ like the way He thought of you, and you want to punch the wall again, hurt something. Make something hurt.

“I did it before,” you say, struggling to speak around the tightness in your throat. “I – He never fixed that. I used to try to make myself ugly, you know?” It’s funny, almost. You, being anything but a pretty girl? “I used to – He locked me up so I _couldn’t_ , you know, but I used my nails, tried to claw off my face. Got my eyes good, but He found me too soon, I guess.”

(The scent of blood, and then thick liquid running down your face, your ragged sobbing, half out of pain, half relief that you don’t have to see your reflection anymore, and then His hands cupping his face. _Oh, my precious, what have you done to yourself?_ )

Terry’s looking at you with this kinda expression that you wish you didn’t know how to place. “But the horns, they grew back, and He – it was the only thing that disappointed him. I tried –” you press the heels of your palms into your eyes, try to stop the burning. “ – I tried everything else, don’t you think I _tried?_ ”

There’s a warm wetness on your face that isn’t blood or sap, and Terry says, “Come here,” and when you don’t move, frozen in place, she steps forwards and folds her arms around you, and then you’re _really_ crying, the way something soft and vulnerable would, and you hate yourself for it, hate the sobs that burst out of your chest like a wounded animal, hate the way you press your face into the soft fabric of Terry’s flannel shirt like it’ll stem the flow of tears.

Terry pulls back sooner than you’d like to admit you _want,_ running a rough thumb over the indent in your horns. “Does, ah –You gonna need a bandaid on that?”

You pull back at the sensation. “Trust me, it’ll grow.”

It’s already happening when you look on the mirror; the sap hardening into a protective shell that’ll eventually dry and crack, leaving a twisted scar in its wake. Made in His image, and all that.


End file.
